


Prototype

by keepfabandgayon



Series: Trans!Chuck [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Gender Dysphoria, Masturbation, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepfabandgayon/pseuds/keepfabandgayon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He often thought about how something he saw as so beautiful on someone else, so desirable in a partner, could, on himself, disgust him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prototype

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was, for a brief time, going to be part of _Becoming Chuck Hansen_ , but then I decided I'd rather keep the rating on that one where it was and give this piece its own place as part of the series. It takes place in 2023, so Chuck is about 19 or 20. 
> 
> If you're not familiar with _Becoming Chuck Hansen_ , the idea behind it is that someone once suggested to me that Chuck might be transgender, and I decided that was my headcanon because it really does make a lot of sense. I recommend reading BCH first, but you don't necessarily have to do so in order to get this.

He'd never done this before. He'd never wanted to, really. 

Sometimes he thought about it, usually when he was in the shower and he looked down past his distinctly masculine upper body to the equally distinct lack of male-seeming parts between his legs. He thought about what it might feel like, to touch the strange (to him) folds of skin, to rub against the puckered bit of flesh that had, to his surprise, grown just enough to be noticeable with the addition of testosterone. 

He didn't think about it for very long, though, before a tingle went up and down his spine and he shook, the blessedly warm water suddenly feeling too-cold, his mind spinning with something that felt too close to fear. 

Sometimes he thought about it in the privacy of his bedroom, years earlier in his room at the Academy (and oh how everyone was jealous that he got his own room, but he wasn't about to tell them why). Sometimes, once or twice, while he lay down in bed late at night after a particularly stressful day, his hands ran down his body, over his chest and torso, a wave of pride rushing over him at the thickening hair. His fingers trailed past his hips, then stopped, suddenly, when they felt the creases of his upper thighs, and he tasted something vile in the back of his mouth, drawing his hands back up and turning on his side, wishing for sleep to come quickly. 

He often thought about how something he saw as so beautiful on someone else, so desirable in a partner, could, on himself, disgust him, and he drew his legs up toward his chest, almost in the foetal position, and shut his eyes tight. 

Chuck wanted that surgery. He wanted what felt to him like the final step. He knew not everyone took it -- not everyone could, and not everyone wanted to -- but it felt right for him. 

It wasn't something he ever expected to get. So he tried to get used to the idea of being concave where he felt like he should be convex. 

Over the years, he did get used to it. He got used to faking immense pain all of the three times he'd taken a hit to the crotch -- pity, really, that he never quite learned the lesson about the correlation between being an asshole and getting your ass handed to you, because he never felt the pain part of that particular pain-based conditioning. He got used to remembering to stuff a pair of balled-up socks down his pants every day, keep track of where exactly in his pants it moved around to, and adjust accordingly when necessary. He got used to going all the way down to medical every day to bathe, because communal showering just wasn't going to happen. 

And eventually he got used to the idea of having the parts that he had, at least for the time being, and maybe, just maybe, enjoying them while he had them. 

He was alone that night, would be every night for the next week or so, and so he lay down on his bed and pushed his boxers (empty of socks, as usual for the night-hours) down to his ankles. 

The first touch of his cold fingers on the hot and vaguely wet skin between his legs shocked him, and he took a deep, quick breath in, then forced a slower one out, slightly shaky, and pushed ahead, sliding his fingers down further. He wasn't exactly sure what to do; he knew which parts were which and which ones were most likely to react when touched, but beyond that little bit of knowledge, it was really all quite literally unexplored territory. 

So he explored; thick fingers rubbing at unfamiliar ridges and folds, delving once into the little hole before that tingle threatened to return and Chuck drew the fingertip out, quickly, just quickly enough that the friction against what he'd come to call his Prototype Cock sent an entirely different type of shiver up his spine, an explosion of sparks that left him warm rather than cold, and why did it feel so different when it was an accidental touch and not a purposeful one? 

He rubbed at it again, and felt those sparks strengthen. Maybe not so different, then. 

Chuck felt more than a little ridiculous, trying to choke down the noises that threatened to escape his throat as he pressed down harder and harder against that part of his body he felt most detached from in a way that made him feel so thoroughly connected to it that it scared him -- it was definitely fear, mind-blowing, blinding fear, because pleasure was scary and so was that cliff of an orgasm that he was reaching so much sooner than he ever could have expected, but it was also fear, in a way, that drove him forward, because he was a Ranger, damn it; he screamed in the face of fear, the physical embodiments of it, and he punched fear in the face and cut it up and shot missiles at it and drew its blood and splattered that blood all over a street or an ocean, he could _damn well handle masturbating with a fucking mega-clit_. 

He wondered, for a moment, if he should try to picture someone. Faces flashed though his mind -- Claudia, beautiful Claudia, piece of _shit_ Claudia -- Natalie, god no -- Mako, briefly, and he wanted to hit himself because something about her just made him detest the idea of turning her into a sex fantasy -- Raleigh Becket, and Chuck fought violently against that, _I'm not gay, I'm not gay, I'm not_ , before sighing and just letting it go so he could deal with it another time -- before he settled on some nameless girl with a face he'd probably seen in some ad. But it didn't feel right. He pictured her sucking him off, and riding him, and on her back while he fucked her and she screamed his name, but it fell flat as the massive cock he imagined hanging between his legs conflicted with the tiny one he rubbed at frantically with just his fingers, barely long enough to pinch, let alone put into someone else. 

So he pushed her out of his mind, and concentrated on the feeling, shutting his eyes tight until he saw stars. He chased those constellations on his eyelids until they became a part of him, lighting up his whole body and making him push his hips up off the creaky bed, twist them, snap his legs together and _squeeze_ hard around his hand, almost crushing his fingers, and his hips jerked a few times. 

Finally, Chuck pulled his fingers away from the burning heat he'd created. They came away wet. He reached down to his ankles and pulled his boxers back up, then turned onto his stomach and waited for sleep to find him. 

He did it again, just a few times, when he forgot what it felt like. He wondered if it'd feel different with someone else, and if he'd ever get to experience that.


End file.
